


Three Words Away

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam thought he'd grown out of it, thought he'd left it behind when he'd run away. He'd been wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Words Away

Sam had been a miserable fucking bitch for two weeks. Maybe longer, but Sam was always a little bit miserable and a little bit bitchy so it was hard for Dean to pinpoint when, exactly, it had escalated into being so raw and defensive full time. He certainly couldn't figure out why.

And Dean had tried to be nice about it, at first. Tried to fix it. Tried to be extra considerate, tried to make Sam laugh. And when that didn't work, he’d given him space. If it helped, Dean was happy to spend a few evenings out of the room, a few afternoons alone under the hood. He’d been on his best fucking behavior. He’d turned the music down while Sam napped against the passenger window and he'd tried to remember to ask before stealing a French fry. He didn't make fun of Sam's stupid hair, and he rinsed out the sink after shaving even though that was a completely fucking ridiculous thing to care about. It hadn't made a damn bit of difference, but Dean had been trying. 

But that was before they had spent two entire days in the car and Sam had only communicated in “I’m fine!” and brittle one word answers and grunts. Dean was patient, and Dean had been a fucking saint, but he couldn’t do it anymore. He'd spent a week stewing about it, but in the last hundred miles had worked his way from worried about the kid to being just fucking sick of it.

* * *

 

Sam was, yet again, slumped in the passenger seat pretending to be asleep, but displaying far too much tension in his shoulders and jaw to really be unconscious. It was a little insulting that he seemed to really think that, after all these years, Dean couldn’t tell the difference between awake Sam and asleep Sam. And it was doubly insulting, because for the last week it seemed like Sam had hardly been sleeping at all. Dean wanted to shake him. This really fucking had to stop. It had to stop for Dean, but it really had to stop for Sam. 

Dean tried to regulate his voice, only let the concern bleed in. "Did I do something?" 

"No.” It was a lie, and Sam hadn't even bothered to open his eyes to deliver it. _Fucking Sam._ Dean was not going to put up with this anymore. This, whatever it was, was going to end here. Now. No more silence, no more tiptoeing around it.

Dean slammed on the brakes-- which at least made Sam look up, so progress--and pulled over and got out if the car, thankful there were no people within thirty miles to watch whatever scene he was going to force Sam into having. Sam watched him through the windshield, but made no move to get out himself. _Screw you, Sam._  

Dean escalated, slamming his door--mentally apologizing to the Impala who had never done a damn thing wrong in her whole life--and stalked to the back of the car to sit on the trunk and stare at the empty road. Sam wouldn't be able to ignore that. _Your move, kid._

The day was too bright, to sharp, everything razor edged, and suddenly it seemed like the worst possible time and place for this. But it was too late for Dean to turn back now. When Dean put a plan in motion he committed to it. 

Dean didn’t bother to turn at the sound of the passenger door opening, at his brother's footsteps, drawing him closer. 

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam's voice didn't have the bite in it Dean was expecting, instead was all scraped and hollow. Dean didn't know what to do with that. He sighed.

"You know that is the longest sentence you have said to me in two days?" Sam blinked, but didn't respond. _Okay, new tactic._ "So you tell me what is going on right now or so help me--"

"So help you what?" Anger flashed in Sam's eyes. _Better._ At least anger was different. Anger Dean could work with, anger could be expunged. It was the rawness that Dean couldn't figure out how to fix. Dean pressed.

"Fucking tell me, Sam.” It was clear to both of them that Dean wasn't asking. Dean slid off the car towards his brother. 

"I just want to get in the car and do the job. Can we just go?”' Steel in Sam's voice now. _Good._

"We aren't going anywhere, brother." Dean pasted his shittiest grin--the one Sam hated the most--on his face.  Willfully baiting. 

Sam's jaw clenched. _What the hell did Dean want him to say?_

"I'm serious. Let's go." Sam was not having this conversation. _Not now. Not ever._

Dean stepped closer. Crossed his arms. "Nope.” With the most “fuck you” that word could possibly convey. And then the smug, provoking smile again. _Come on._

 Sam had been an exposed nerve all week, maybe all month, and it turned out this was just exactly more than he could possibly abide, could possibly process. Everything he'd been pushing down came up tinged with red and fury, and he swung at his brother, as hard as he could. The kind of punch he only threw when he had his back to the wall.  

Sam’s fist cracked against Dean's jaw, before either of them really had any idea what was going on.

 Dean couldn't figure out where his calculations had been wrong. He'd been goading Sam into a fight-- sometimes it took a fight to get something out of Sam-- but he'd counted on words, maybe a shove, not Sam's hardest right hook, and certainly not so soon in the confrontation. 

So his body reacted before his mind, his own fist pulling back and releasing before he could stop it. Returning the favor. But Sam had gotten more warning than Dean-- he'd thrown the surprise punch after all--so he ducked and caught Dean in his ribs. 

And then, then it was on. They had sparred a hundred times, a thousand, but they had never meant it like this.  They both fought hard, dirty. Dean landing a blow in Sam's stomach, Sam bloodying Dean's nose. Dean was a better fighter, usually, but Sam was fighting like he had nothing to lose, all sense of brother lost in the scuffle. Which was, of course, exactly what had been Sam's problem in the first place. He landed a punch on Dean’s ribs, knocked away Dean’s retaliation. 

Sam couldn’t feel any of the punches Dean was landing, too much adrenaline, but his arms were getting tired. Heavy with the blows he'd blocked. End it, he thought. Dean was getting tired too, sloppy, and Sam saw his opening, catching Dean's arm and wrenching it back, not even trying to moderate the amount of force he was using. 

"Fuck." Dean hissed. "Sammy."  And it was the Sammy that did it, that brought back the word _brother_ and the concept of _stop_. 

Sam dropped his brother's arm, stepped back, hands up like a white flag. 

Dean stared at him, gaping and confused, shirt torn, nose dripping into the dirt. Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, belatedly realizing he was bleeding too, probably Dean's ring, scraping against his cheekbone. _What the hell was he doing?_

"Jesus. Fuck. I'm--" Sam choked on the the apology, slumping into the dirt.

Dean had no idea what the fuck was going on, but he knew it wasn't totally Sam's fault. A lot Sam's fault. Maybe even mostly, maybe, but Dean had known he was picking a fight.  Not such a dirty, physical fight, but he had meant to start something, even if World War Three wasn't exactly where he'd seen it going.  "No. Hey man, I--" Dean was at a total loss. _W_ _hat the fuck was happening?_  Dean crossed towards his brother, slowly like he was approaching a wounded animal. Which Sam was giving every indication of being. _  
_

Dean eases himself next to Sam, ignoring the bruises he could already feel forming on his ribs. Dean had no idea what to do. He tried again, lighter this time. Levity until he got his bearings. "Hell of a jab, Dude. The big brother who taught you how to punch did a good job."

This was precisely the wrong thing to say, if the shattering sobs it elicited from his brother was any indication. Dean was so out of his element he may as well have been breathing straight nitrogen. _  
_

Instinctively Dean moved to put his arm around Sam's shoulders--because even if your nose was still bleeding from where he'd smashed his fist into it that was what you did for little brothers who were crying like that, sounding so utterly destroyed--but Sam jerked away as though Dean had burned him, and pushed onto his hands and knees and puked up whatever shitty salad he'd eaten at lunch.

Dean replayed their fight in his head. He'd hit Sam, and gotten in some good punches, but he didn't think he'd done any real, meaningful damage. He tried again, this time just a hand on Sam's back, something he’d done uncountable times during hangovers and illnesses, but Sam shook him off, viciously.

"Damn it, Dean. Get the fuck away from me." Sam spat, trying to get the taste of vomit out if his mouth, utterly miserable. He didn't really want Dean to go away. He didn't even really want Dean to stop touching him. In fact, in the darkest most fucked up part of his mind he knew he never wanted Dean to stop touching him ever again. 

Sam had been in love with his brother for so long it had felt like forever. His adolescence had been absolute agony, sleeping in the same room, sometimes the same bed, constantly subjected to Dean’s easy languid grace, his slow smile and his quick wit. Sam had idolized him and then he’d loved him and he never quite knew when, exactly, in his screwed up childhood that switch had gotten flipped. He’d spent his teenage years burning for the little touches, the hand carding through his hair, or the knee knocking his in diners. He’d jerked off in dozens of motel showers to the image of Dean emerging  from the same room minutes before, shirtless, skin damp and water still dripping from his hair. He’d known it was wrong, something sick and broken inside him, but he couldn’t help it.  Dean had been really fucking easy to fall in love with. 

But there is no acceptable way to tell your brother you are in love with him, so Sam had finally done what he’d tried to do before, only this time he’d meant it. He’d runaway— he’d gone to Stanford and he’d put as much distance between him and his sick thoughts as he possibly could, throwing himself into his classes, and then into his relationship with Jessica, as hard and as much as he could. He’d told Dean he’d been escaping Dad— and he was, sure, that was part of it— but mostly he’d been escaping himself. Trying to outrun the part of him that was going to bring about his ruin. Dean’s ruin. 

And it had worked.  The ache he always carried, the empty want of Dean, it had dissipated, eventually. It had taken years, but he’d buried it, so deep he’d stopped feeling his heart hitch when he heard Led Zeppelin on the radio, or his chest constrict when he smelled someone wearing Dean’s aftershave. After the first two years he’d gone cold turkey, not once drunkenly borrowing someone’s cellphone so he could call Dean’s voicemail without him knowing, barely able to breathe, listening to his recorded voice from the quietest corner in a bar or a party before returning, all fake smiles and good cheer, like he hadn't just shattered, like he hadn’t just experience the best and worst thirty seconds of his entire month. He told himself he’d finally come to terms with it, and he’d made his peace. And eventually, he’d stopped calling Dean completely.

 It was almost like being normal. 

Sam had told himself it was over. Sam had believed it was over. 

But then Dean had showed up at his door in the middle of the night and it all came crashing down. Not immediately, of course, the walls and defenses Sam had built up since he’d been away were immense. The first few hunts Sam had even convinced himself it was in the past, his sick desire had just been part of his mixed up, fucked up upbringing and his college years had cured him. 

But it had come back. Of course it had.  Dean’s shirt riding up as he leaned over the Impala and tinkered with the engine. The way the dim, dirty light of bars only seemed to highlight the jade in Dean's eyes. The slow way he licked his lips without realizing it, the happy look on his face when he was driving, the way his whole face lit up when he was particularly amused at his own joke. His easy way with kids, the way he smelled of leather and grease no matter how much he showered, and the way he knew— the way he’d never forgotten— how to communicate with Sam with just a glance.  Dean was really fucking easy to fall in love with. 

It had taken months, because Sam was trying, Sam was really fucking trying, but recently he’d found himself exactly as in love with Dean as he’d been when he’d decided he had to leave, that he couldn’t do that to himself, to Dean, anymore. Only this time, here in the middle of nowhere in the fucking dirt, Sam didn’t know what the to do. He couldn’t run— obviously distance wasn’t the answer— and really, he didn’t want to run anymore. All he wanted to do was push his lips against Dean’s throat, and feel his pulse under his lips. Run his hands over Dean’s stomach, and lick the skin just above his waistband, the scars Sam knew were on his chest. 

But he couldn’t, and he never would— he would NEVER tell Dean, would never risk this, that was a promise he had made to himself.  Which meant, evidently, that sometimes he’d find himself puking his guts out with tears running down his face and his brother’s blood still on his knuckles.

Sam was the most fucked up little brother in the world. 

Dean had disappeared, sometime between Sam throwing up and pushing him away and Sam pulling himself together enough to look up. For a moment Sam allowed himself the wild hope that Dean had left him. Gotten in the car and driven away and Sam would never have to face him, never have to see his brother while battling this, his sickness gnawing away at his soul and threatening to ruin everything, ever again. But the hope didn’t last— Sam was the one who ran away, never Dean-- and Dean ambled back into Sam’s vision with a bottle of water and a bottle of whiskey he must have had stashed away somewhere, both of which he offered Sam, wordlessly. 

“Water.” Sam grimaced at how naked and destroyed his voice sounded, and hoped Dean would chalk it up to the  vomiting and not the emotional distress. Dean handed Sam the water, which tasted old and foul but a million times better than his mouth. Dean took a long pull of the whiskey, before sitting back down, tentative, further from Sam than he’d been before. Sam looked at his shoes, at the ground, anywhere but Dean. He was scared that if Dean looked into his eyes he’d see everything. Every secret Sam had been hiding, everything Sam could never ever let Dean know. 

“I’m—“ Dean paused, carefully choosing his words, “I’m not sure what that was. But I’m sorry, okay?” Dean took another pull from the whiskey bottle. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” 

It was so predictably Dean, Sam thought hysterically. Accepting blame and feeling guilty were just about the only two things Dean did better than making his little brother hard. Sam felt his stomach clench again. 

Self-loathing was not a uniquely Dean trait.  

Sam didn’t trust his voice, but it was clear that he had to say something. “I can’t—“ _Fuck. What was there to say?_ “I can’t explain this to you, Dean. But it’s my fault and I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry I hit you.” Sam wanted more than anything to catch Dean’s face, examine the damage that he’d done, but he didn’t trust his hands. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass,” he finished lamely, forcing himself to look up. 

Dean was staring at Sam, left eye already starting to swell, to purple. “You can’t just pretend—“ 

But that was exactly what Sam needed, what Sam had to do. Sam had to pretend this had never happened, to pretend that he wasn’t this sick and twisted and fucked up, because, if he couldn’t, Sam was going to put his gun into his mouth and put a bullet into his own brain and that was the only thing he could think of that would be worse to do to Dean than telling him his little brotherly was madly in love with him and always had been. 

So Sam let all of his utter misery and pain bleed into his eyes and over his face, everything he’d been trying, and so utterly failing, to hide these last few weeks. He’d never needed anything more than he needed Dean to forget about this. “Please, Dean.” Sam's voice all agony. It was clearly the most important thing Sam had ever asked for, and Dean had no fucking idea why. Dean felt flayed. The scrape in Sam's voice was inflicting far more damage on Dean than any of his punches had.

More than anything, Dean wanted to push, to force his brother to tell him what was wrong, to vow that they could fix it. To grab his shoulders and haul him to his feet and remind them there is no battle Dean would make Sam fight alone. Ever. Whatever it was, they were in it together. There was nothing Dean wouldn't do for Sam. 

Which included ignoring decades of "protect Sam" and "watch out for your baby brother" when Sam begged him to like this, like he couldn't even breathe, like his whole goddamn world was three words away from collapsing and burying him. 

“Okay.” It was the hardest thing Dean had ever done and he hated the way the word tasted in his mouth, this promise that every bone in his body didn’t want him to be making. “Let’s go.”

Dean would never have forgiven himself for asking, for breaking Sam after he had pleaded with him not to, but he knew he'd never forgive himself for not asking, for not fixing it, too. But what is another thing in the litany of things Dean would never forgive himself for?   _Fucking Sam._

 Dean offered a hand to pull up his brother, thankful when Sam accepted, that he didn’t ignore it, or bat it away.  Dean wasn't sure what he was allowed, the rules between them had clearly changed, so he just gave Sam's hand an extra squeeze before releasing, hoping it conveyed "it's okay" and "I'm here for you" and, most importantly "you can change your mind." 

Silently, they walked to the car, slid in. 

Dean was really fucking easy to fall in love with. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
